The Endless Night
by Inspector Karamazov
Summary: Enjolras is sick, and all Les Amis make a fuss over him.


Enjolras did not look well. Sitting at the crowded table in Café Musian, Combeferre watched his friend shifting through his notes. The man was paler than usual, with dark bags under his eyes. Enjolras shivered convulsively, his hands shaking as the paged through the papers.

"He looks awful," Courfeyrac whispered to him.

"I know. We ought to corner him after the meeting and force him to rest."

He knew Enjolras would have none of it, unless he bodily forced him into bed to rest and stood guard day and night.

"He works too hard," said Courfeyrac, "I swear he does nothing but work."

The general chatter of the room fell silent as Enjolras pushed back his chair, gathered his notes, and stood up.

"My friends," he began. His voice had lost its strength, and he sounded incredibly weary. He cleared his throat.

"Friends," he said again, his voice a bit stronger, "I bring to you all today a matter of most importance."

He continued, in the same voice, although the shivering continued.

"After he finishes," said Courfeyrac, under his breath, "We grab him and drag him home."

Before Combeferre could respond, he saw Enjolras' papers scatter. He doubled over, clutching his stomach and heaving. He vomited on the floor, and a moment later, he stood up, still shaking, and continued his speech without missing a beat.

"That's quite enough," cried Combeferre, throwing his chair aside and standing up, "Enjolras, I demand you rest."

There was a murmur of agreement. Joly had stood up and attempted to examine him, while muttering darkly to himself. Jehan clutched Feuilly's hand and looked as if he were about to cry. Bahorel launched into a tirade to which no one listened about how dirty the air was, and Bossuet, who felt utterly useless, fidgeted. Only Grantaire remained the same: slumped over in his chair and snoring.

Enjolras looked at Combeferre, mildly.

"I will not let a small illness get in the way of my work."

Combeferre looked at Courfeyrac.

"Grab him," he said, and before Enjolras could protest, they'd both grabbed him by one arm.

"I'm taking you home," insisted Combeferre, "Even if I have to carry you."

Enjolras, defeated, allowed himself to be led out.

Once back at Enjolras' flat, Combeferre and Courfeyrac fairly forced him into bed.

"I'm not tired," he said, stubbornly, "and I have work to do. At least let me sit at my desk and write."

"No," said Combeferre, "You will lie there and rest."

"Even if we have to sit on you," added Courfeyrac.

"But," said Enjolras, "It's not as if I'm dangerously ill."

"You'll only become sicker if you don't lie down awhile, and that's final. My friend, you work much too hard. There are enough of us that we can carry on your work until you recover."

Enjolras only shrugged.

"I expect you to let me up, tomorrow," he said.

"You're hopeless," said Courfeyrac, affectionately, "Most people would be glad for a few day's rest."

"Tell me, truthfully," Combeferre looked Enjolras straight in the eyes, "When was the last time you slept?"

Enjolras shifted, and bit his lip, as if thinking. At last, he said:

"I sleep occasionally."

Before either of them could answer, a soft knock startled them, and Courfeyrac went to answer the door.

Their friends stood there in one crowd.

"We've come to see him," said Feuilly, who had an arm around a whimpering Jehan.

"You'll have to ask Mother Combeferre," said Courfeyrac, "He seems to be in charge here."

"One at a time," said Combeferre, "And no more than five minutes each. He needs to sleep."

They ignored this order and all piled into the room at once.

"He'll be alright, won't he?" said Jehan, "It isn't…anything serious, is it?"

"I hope to God it isn't cholera," said Joly, darkly, "Let me take a look at him, I know the symptoms. Tell me, Enjolras, have you been vomiting clear liquid? Do you suffer from profuse diarrhea that has a distinct fishy smell? And leg cramps as well, that's sure sign-"

"Oh, hush, Joly," said Feuilly, "You're scaring Jehan."

"And besides," said Combeferre, "He hasn't got cholera. He's just fatigued."

"Fatigue is another symptom," said Joly, "What if he's on his deathbed?"

"You'll be on your deathbed if you don't shut it," said Bahorel, "Nobody want to hear about how he's going to die. Talk about something cheerful for Christ's sake."

Combeferre could say nothing above the din of voices, and feared he would never be heard, until Bossuet tripped over Enjolras' bedside table, knocking it to the ground with a loud crash. In the startled silence that followed, Combeferre found his voice:

"I'm glad you're all concerned," he said, "but it is getting quite late, and he needs his sleep. Tomorrow, you may visit him. But now, I must ask all of you to leave. I'll watch him tonight."

"How come you get to stay?" said Courfeyrac.

"Because I know what I'm doing," said Combeferre. It was slightly rude, but his patience was almost worn through.

Together, he and Courfeyrac shooed the others out.

Courfeyrac was the last to leave.

"You better take good care of him," he said, and left.

Now alone, Combeferre pulled up a chair next to Enjolras' bed. The men stared at each other a long time.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said, "So don't expect you can get away with anything."

Enjolras pulled the covers close around himself and shivered.

"I wouldn't expect any less of you, my friend."


End file.
